On the Side of Angels
by WickedForGood13
Summary: In the aftermath of the Fall, John writes Sherlock a series of letters in an attempt to cope with the loss of his friend. Eventual Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

Day 1

_Sherlock —_

_It hurts. How can I be in this much pain and still manage to feel so numb inside? You're gone. I still have trouble saying the words out loud. I just can't believe that you're dead and that you won't ever be coming back, not even to play the violin at an insanely early hour of the morning or to stash body parts in the fridge. Come back, please. I wouldn't complain anymore, I swear. Just come back._

_You were my best friend, Sherlock. Did that not mean anything to you? Was it so easy, then, to separate yourself from me? God, the pain – it's like a lance straight through my heart. You were the most important person in my life; I would have done anything and everything for you. You meant the world to me. How is it, then, that you can be gone?_

_My hand is shaking as I'm writing this. I can't seem to stop trembling, not since... since... since that day. So much blood. I can still see it when I close my eyes; I can still see you, spread out on the pavement like one of Molly's corpses. As glad as I am that I could be there for you at the end, why did you have to make me watch? What went wrong, that made you think death was the only option left? If you'd have come to me, I'm sure we would have worked something out. We always do, don't we?  
_

_It hurts, Sherlock, and I don't know when the pain is going to stop – if it ever will. I miss you._

_Your friend,_

_John_


	2. Chapter 2

Day 13

_Sherlock —_

_I visited your grave today. The headstone was hard and cold, as icy as you claimed your heart to be. But I know better. I know you, Sherlock. You may think that emotions are pointless, but the fact remains that you care. You half-near killed a man for daring to lay a hand on Mrs. Hudson, and I know it upset you every time I was in danger while on some case or other._

_It's only been a couple weeks since you di— fell, and I'm still barely functioning. I've moved out of the flat, at least for the time being. I just can't stand to be surrounded by everything that reminds me of you – your experiments, your violin, even your smell – and yet not have you there with me._

_Greg stops by to check on me every day; I think he's worried that I might off myself in the time between visits. I've occasionally contemplated suicide, if only to join you in the afterlife (if there even is one), but I just don't seem to have the courage to pull the trigger or to throw myself off of Bart's like you did. Isn't that funny? I'm a soldier; I've killed before; and yet I can't do this simple little thing. Maybe it isn't a matter of courage, though; maybe it's a matter of apathy._

_I don't feel anything anymore; I'm numb inside. I sleep and eat, but I don't take pleasure in it. There's no pleasure in life without you there, Sherlock. You gave me my life back – you really did. I owe you so much. Why aren't you here with me? What happened? What went wrong?_

_Come back to me, Sherlock, please._

_Your friend,_

_John_


	3. Chapter 3

Day 39

_Sherlock —_

_I'm back in the flat now. It still doesn't feel like home – I doubt it ever will again, not without you here – but I found that I just couldn't stay away. I hope you don't mind, but I've taken to sleeping in your bed and wrapping myself up in your clothes. Your scent helps to calm me, marginally, and I find that I sleep easier if I can trick myself into believing that you're with me. I like to feel as though you're surrounding me, watching over me from Heaven or wherever you are – my own personal angel._

_Since your fall, I've had both good and bad days – although 'good' and 'bad' are relative, I suppose. Today was a bad day: everything reminded me of you, and I almost broke down crying on the street._

_I want to die, Sherlock. There just doesn't seem to be any point to life without you._

_John_


	4. Chapter 4

Day 78

_Sherlock —_

_The days seem to drag on in a vicious cycle I can't seem to break out of. I get up, I get dressed, I choke down what food I can, I go to work, I come back to the flat, and then I repeat the process the next day, over and over again. I need your brilliant mind, Sherlock, to distract me from my boredom._

_I keep dreaming about the Fall. Every time I shut my eyes, I see you on that rooftop with your arms spread wide, as though to embrace your impending death. What did it feel like, I wonder, to fall weightless like that? I imagine it must have been a bit like flying – until you hit the ground, that is._

_I went to your grave again; I go every day, whenever I can and for however long I can manage. It was my day off from work today, so I spent many long hours there, just sitting, not saying much. There isn't a whole lot to say, to be honest. I'm not really living, just existing, similarly to when I first returned from the war. Only this time, for some reason, my so-called life is a little bleaker, the colors a little more muted. What am I saying? Of course I know why my life seems pointless. It's because I'm missing you, my dear Sherlock. You gave my life meaning again; without you, I'd be just another soldier, home from the war._

_I miss you, my friend, more than you can possibly imagine._

_Yours,_

_John_


	5. Chapter 5

Day 130

_Sherlock —_

_It's been several months, and I'm still as lost as the day you... That Day. When you did what you did, did you have any idea of the affect your actions would have on me, on Mrs. Hudson, on Greg? No, of course not, you selfish bastard. All you cared about was playing the game and beating Moriarty._

_I'm sorry. That's not fair of me. You must have had your reasons. I'm just too stupid, I guess, to have figured out what those reasons are. Why did you keep me around, I wonder? Was I entertainment for you, an experiment like the one you pulled on me in the Baskerville case? Again, I'm sorry. Today must be one of my bad days. They come and go, as with most emotions._

_The pain I feel at your loss, though, is a constant companion, waiting in the wings to bring me to my knees until I beg for mercy. I find myself heaving on the floor, great shuddering sobs that wrack my entire frame. I choke on my own tears, the pain almost too much to bear. There are times I just want it all to end._

_'What, John?' I hear you ask me. 'What do you wish would end? Be specific, John.'  
_

_My answer for you, dear Sherlock, is this: life. I want my life to end, if only so that we could be together again. Ignore me, old friend. I don't know what I'm saying. My leg has been acting up again – I use a cane almost constantly, now – and the tremor in my hand has returned._

_You once said that you'd be lost without your blogger. As for me, I'm simply lost without you._

_John_


	6. Chapter 6

Day 195

_Sherlock —_

_Remember our first case together, the one with the demented cab driver? We must have chased that cab for what seemed to be miles, and then all you had to say was 'Welcome to London.' I still laugh about that. That first night, you proved to me that I didn't need a cane: I could walk on my own two feet without any sign of a limp. I thank you for that, my dear, dear friend._

_I know that The Woman is a sore point for you; I know you were fond of her, and that you risked everything to save her from certain death. But if it hadn't been for her, we never would have been called to Buckingham Palace – you, in nothing but a sheet – and you never would have swiped that ash tray for me. That ash tray is now one of my most prized possessions, if only because you acquired it for me._

_I'm... lighter today, although I'm sure this feeling will pass. Any moments such as these that I've experienced inevitably do._

_Such memories of our time together are bittersweet for me, now. Sharing a flat with you led to two of the best years of my life. There was never a dull moment with you, although I'm sure you'd beg to differ. Did I ever apologize for hiding your secret supply of cigarettes and nicotine patches? It was for your own good, you know. Anything I ever did was to ensure your health; I hope you know that, wherever you are._

_Cheers, mate._

_John_


	7. Chapter 7

Day 273

_Sherlock —_

_I punched Anderson today. You would be so proud of me. At least, I think you would be. I know you let his and Donovan's comments roll off your back, but it always bothered me whenever they doubted your abilities and called you a freak. Didn't that bother you, even the slightest? I know it always bothered me. What you never seemed to understand, no matter how many times you asked why what people said about you bothered me, was that I was bothered because you were my friend. And friends don't stand idly by while others slander their friend's good name._

_Things have been bad for me lately. I think that's why I hauled off and hit Anderson today (of course, there's also the fact that he's had it coming for a while now). The pain of losing you isn't lessening; if anything, it's getting worse, a constant dull ache in my chest that won't go away. I hurt so much, Sherlock. Help me, please. _

_I accidentally cut myself on a razor today. The pain caught me so off guard that my mind went blank, and I temporarily forgot all about you. Then, when I realized that I had forgotten, I immediately cut myself again, as punishment for letting you slip from my mind. Cutting myself felt... different, but a good kind of different. I know there's something wrong with me, though. Where are you when I need you, Sherlock?_

_Your John_


	8. Chapter 8

Day 365

_Sherlock —_

_I can't take it anymore. It's been a year since you died, and I'm no better than I was then. I still cut; it's the only time I feel anything anymore. My arms are now littered with scars, scabs, and barely healed gashes._

_You came to me in a dream last night. You seemed to beckon me onwards, leading me on a merry chase all over London, through busy thoroughfares and back alleys. Just like old times, eh? When I woke up, I decided something: I either have to join you or continue slowly going mad. There's just no point in living if I'm not by your side, to protect you as I've always done._

_I want you to know, Sherlock, that I never doubted you, not even for a split second. I knew you inside and out, and the Sherlock that I knew and had grown to love would never have arranged for me to be strapped to a bomb just so that he could get his kicks by being clever._

_You saved me, Sherlock, in every way that a person can be saved. And yes, I know I just quoted 'Titanic.' So sue me. You gave me back my life and continued giving me a reason to get up in the morning. That reason is gone now. I'm barely surviving. I only eat what Mrs. Hudson and Greg and Molly and Sarah provide. I've become a shell of the person you once knew. Would you even recognize me, I wonder?_

_In the year that I've spent mourning your passing, I realized something: I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you more than life itself. You are... everything to me, and my one regret is that I never vocalized my feelings. I know you think that emotions are silly and useless, but I wonder sometimes if that's because no one ever took the time to show you that they cared. I care, Sherlock; I've always cared. For God's sake, I shot a man within twenty-four hours of our first meeting._

_I don't like to think about what might have happened if the events of that fateful morning had turned out differently than they had. If one slight variable had changed, all conclusions point to our having never met, and I can't imagine life without you, not now that I know you._

_God, please, let me die._

_I remember when I was shot, begging for God to let me live. I realize now that my life was spared so that we might meet. Would I change His plan, to spare myself the heartache of today? Would I have rather died on the operating table than be torn apart from the inside out, slowly self-destructing from the loss of you? What it all boils down to is this: does the good outweigh the bad? Would I rather have the memories of happier times together than not have them at all?_

_I honestly can't say. I don't know myself anymore. Who am I? What have I become?_

_I'm sorry to have let you down, Sherlock. I'm sure this isn't the way you would have wanted for me to go, but what other choice do I have when I can't live without you? Is this possibly how you felt on that last day? I guess I'll find out sooner rather than later._

_Goodbye, Sherlock. With any luck, I'll see you soon._

_Love,_

_John_


	9. Chapter 9

Day 391

_Sherlock —_

_Damn Mycroft! Couldn't even let me die in peace! Doesn't he understand that I only want to be with you? It hurts, Sherlock – it hurts all the fucking time._

_Obviously, my plan to join you in death didn't work. Fucking Mycroft had me followed to your grave and stopped me before I could swallow the first pill. Now he's got me locked up on 'suicide watch,' which is fucking ridiculous. My one consolation is that I am apparently in your old room, the one that Mycroft allocated to you for the duration of your recovery from drug use. Some consolation – there's no sign that you ever lived here. It doesn't even smell like you, and it certainly doesn't have your personal touch._

_I've been here for about a month, now, and I've had a lot of time to myself to think. I know you would want me to live, Sherlock – I /know/ that. But it's so hard without you. I suppose I'll eventually get used to the emptiness inside._

_I still love you, Sherlock. I don't think I could ever stop._

_Your John_


	10. Chapter 10

Day 430

_Sherlock —_

_I've been released; your dear brother has deemed me fit to rejoin society. I'm back at Baker Street, although Mycroft has been very thorough in seeing to it that there's nothing around for me to harm myself with again. I don't think I'll need to cut anymore, though. I feel... different. I won't say that I've accepted your death – far from it – but I think I've come to terms with the fact that I didn't get to say goodbye. I think that's what bothers me more, now: the fact that you denied me closure._

_Love,_

_John_


	11. Chapter 11

Day 482

_Sherlock —_

_The days go by, taking me with them, though oftentimes kicking and screaming. Although I sometimes find it hard to get out of bed in the morning, I force myself, if for no other reason than I'm a soldier and a survivor. Though how I'm expected to move past your death remains a mystery to me._

_Since my release, I've started visiting your grave again, every day. During my 'stay' with him, Mycroft wouldn't let me go, even with an escort. He seemed to think that I might try to off myself again. I'm honestly not sure whether I would have or not. I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself anymore. I've told you before that my limp returned, so my old cane is now my constant companion. My hand trembles; I don't sleep well at night anymore – I'm afraid to close my eyes for fear of seeing you fall again – so my face has taken on a haggard appearance; I only eat when forced to, so I've lost a considerable amount of weight. I just can't seem to find the energy to care anymore._

_I'll live, Sherlock. Mycroft made me promise. But I don't have to like it._

_I love you,_

_John_


	12. Chapter 12

Day 547

_Sherlock —_

_I honestly don't know why I'm still writing in this stupid notebook. All these letters that you'll never read... it's like I'm holding on to hope, waiting for that one last miracle, for you to come striding into our flat as if nothing has changed and you've only been away on some case or other._

_Who am I fooling? You're never coming back, and I should accept that and move on. That's what everyone tells me to do, you know: move on. They say it's been over a year, it's unhealthy to keep dwelling on the past; I should let you go and get on with my life. But what they don't understand is that you were my everything. While I may have only been an option to you – a passing fancy, maybe (I wasn't, was I?) – you were always my number one priority. You called and I came – it was as simple as that._

_I know Moriarty said that I was your pet, among a lot of other nonsense, but I never saw myself that way. I was your friend, and that's what friends do: they go where they're needed._

_Wait for me, Sherlock. We'll be together again, one day – I promise you._

_Love,_

_John_


	13. Chapter 13

Day 625

_Sherlock —_

_You bloody fucking bastard! Why did you leave me here alone? I thought we were friends! Why didn't you come to me and tell me your troubles? If you were in so deep that you thought suicide was the only option... why the hell didn't you come to me?_

_How can people expect me to move on, like you were just a phase in my life? I've become convinced that we were soul mates, in every sense of the words. How can I move on from that? You were my best friend, and yet you were so much more than that. You understood me, in ways that no one else could ever possibly match. You made me a better person, and I know I did the same for you. We've seen each other at our best and at our worst, and yet we still accepted each other unconditionally._

_Now, why the hell aren't you with me when I need you so desperately?_

_I still believe in you, Sherlock; I always have and I always will. I know the papers made you out to be a liar and a fake; I know you tried to convince me of the same, that day up on the roof. But I never fell for it. My faith in you, my trust, my love, is absolute, Sherlock. Nothing can ever change my feelings._

_Love,_

_Your John_


	14. Chapter 14

Day 716

_Sherlock —_

_It's approaching the two-year mark of your death. Only a couple more weeks, now..._

_So what should I do to celebrate? Go for a run through the streets of London in the dead of night? Take a walk through the park? Hail a cab and drive to all of our favorite haunts or visit old case sites? Tell me, Sherlock – you, with all the answers – what am I supposed to do without you here to guide me? You gave my life meaning again, so how could you be so cruel, so selfish, as to take that away from me?_

_Remember the night we got arrested, running away handcuffed together? Most people would have been terrified with a gun held to their head, more so if that person was their 'supposed' best friend. But I trusted you implicitly; I knew you must have had a plan, and if holding a gun to my head was the means to an end, then I was willing to play along._

_I know you're an expert on the human body – you caught on to The Woman's attraction to you by taking her pulse, after all – but I don't think you ever realized that the increase in my pulse wasn't from the adrenaline of that night – at least, not solely so – but from your direction to 'Take my hand.' I think I loved you, even then; I just didn't recognize the signs._

_Did you love me at all, I wonder? You must have, in your own way. You were always frantic with worry if I was ever put in harm's way while out on a case together. You would always have much rather taken the risks yourself than to see me hurt. But did you ever stop to think that I felt the same, that I would much rather come to harm in your place than to see you bleeding out on the floor at my feet? I'm a soldier, Sherlock, even now, and every risk that I take is calculated. I always knew what was at stake, and it was always my choice. Well, except when Moriarty had me strapped to that bomb, but even then I was willing to be blown to smithereens if it ensured your survival._

_I guess we were both a little stupid when it came to our safety if the other of us was in danger. I know you would probably chide me for believing myself to be expendable, but that isn't the case at all. It's not a matter of worth; it never has been. It's simply that I value your life above mine._

_All my love, Sherlock._

_Your John_


	15. Chapter 15

Day 820

_Sherlock —_

_I laughed today. The sound was so strange, so foreign, that I had to stop and think for a moment. Who could have made that sound? And then I realized – it was me! I haven't laughed in so long... I think I scared Greg a bit (it's not like his joke was /that/ funny, after all). He was visiting me at Baker Street, and when I realized that I had been the one to laugh, I started laughing even more hysterically until there were tears streaming down my face._

_Can my existence truly be called 'living'? I wonder... I survive on a day-to-day basis, similarly to when I was in the army. That's a bit what living without you has been like: my own personal war, and one which I am sorely losing. Sometimes I wish that Mycroft had let me die, even if it would have been seen as a personal failure, a capitulation. Even now, I don't care. All that matters to me is seeing you again. I don't care about my soul; I just want you._

_In the early days after your fall, I tried going back to Ella. It didn't help. The only thing that has helped – and even then, only marginally – has been talking about you to people that knew you, like Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Only they seem to understand what we had, what we shared._

_I miss you, my friend. I know that I've stopped asking you to come back – I think a part of me gave up on my prayers ever being answered – but I'll ask just one more time: please come back, Sherlock. For me, please. I love you. Doesn't that count for something?_

_Your John, always_


	16. Chapter 16

Day 937

_Sherlock —_

_I'm so tired, love. It's become a struggle to get through each day. I just want to go to sleep one night and not wake up in the morning. That would be easiest, I think. It certainly wouldn't put me to any trouble – or anyone else, for that matter. To just pass peacefully in my sleep, and then be reunited with you... yes, I like the sound of that._

_What am I saying, though? I'm not that lucky. It's not like there's anything physically wrong with me – not anymore, at least. I've stopped cutting, and while I don't eat as regularly as I should, what I do consume is at least healthy. It'd be so easy, though, to just lie down and slip away – like floating downstream on a river, I imagine._

_What am I striving towards, anyway? The work at the hospital can only distract me for so long. I do well enough during the day. It's when I go back to the flat that I'm in trouble. That cold, empty, quiet flat where you're supposed to be conducting numerous experiments at the same time that are most likely hazardous to our health, and playing your violin at times when any sane person would be in bed sound asleep._

_I sometimes question my sanity for having put up with you for as long as I did. I know Greg wonders what I see/saw in you, and it's a hard question to answer. I guess the truth is that it's not any one specific thing. It's all the parts combined that made you who you were. Would I have changed anything? Not on your life! There's a reason I fell in love with you, after all, and if you changed, then you wouldn't be the Sherlock Holmes that I fell in love with._

_I face life without you the only way that I can: one day at a time. But it's so hard, Sherlock. I miss you so much sometimes that it's like a physical wound, like the bullet hole in my shoulder. Come back to me, you beautiful bastard._

_Love,_

_John_


	17. Chapter 17

Day 1096

_Sherlock —_

_You're back. I still can't believe it. You're back. You're actually back. Maybe if I say it enough I'll start to believe it. I don't know how you managed it, and I don't particularly care at the moment. I'm just glad to have you here with me again. That's not to say that I'm not mad. I am, very much so, and I'll let you know in no uncertain terms – but later._

_Right now, you're lying on your stomach, limbs fully splayed out across the bed, clearly exhausted. Your hair is longer, and the curls fall in your face, which makes me want to brush them away. When you first knocked on the door, the sound was so timid that I almost dismissed it as my imagination. And then when I opened the door to discover you standing there... I thought I was hallucinating. Your reaction was unexpected, to say the least. I never thought I'd live to see the great Sherlock Holmes fall to his knees and beg of anyone – certainly not me, much less for my forgiveness. As I seem to recall, you told The Woman in no uncertain terms that you'd never begged for anything in your life. Guess there's always a first time, eh?_

_You were a mess – you clearly hadn't showered in who-knows-how-long, and even through your clothes I could tell that you were emaciated; what have you been up to? – but it was so good to see you that I put all that aside and drew you into my arms. You've clearly been starved for touch, as you submitted to my embrace without resistance, almost – dare I say it? – melting as my arms sought to enfold you and you lowered your head to rest on top of mine._

_I've missed you, Sherlock. Can I ever impress upon you the extent to which I did? I don't think so. There aren't words in the English language – or any language, for that matter – to express the complete and utter devastation I felt at your supposed loss. Never fear, though – I /will/ find the words, some very /strong/ words, most likely. You have been warned._

_Although there were – and still are – many issues to resolve, you clearly needed a doctor, not your flat mate and best friend, so I pushed aside my own feelings in order to tend to you. As I led you to the bathroom, you clung to my hand so desperately, almost as if you thought I might disappear if you let go. Believe me, I felt the same way myself – and I still do. That's why I'm sitting in a chair as close to the bed as I can manage – because I can't bear to be separated from you any more than I have to._

_You were pliant under my hands as I methodically stripped you and filled the tub with water. Truth be told, that almost scared me more than the scars and bruises that your clothes revealed to be hiding – not to mention the ribs that I could count with my eyes alone. It's as if all of the fight had gone out of you. What's happened, Sherlock? Who did this to you? Although since your disappearance I've realized that I love you, I managed to control myself at the sight of your naked body. Rather than give in to my more primeval urges, I bathed you with the utmost tenderness, lavishing you with the attention you had sorely been lacking. Toweling you dry was taxing to my self-restraint, but I abstained – for you. Haven't you realized by now that everything I do is for you and always will be?_

_You wordlessly followed me to the bedroom and tugged me down onto the mattress with you, immediately curling into my side and wrapping your arms tightly around me while simultaneously making yourself as small as possible. For a man who doesn't do feelings, you can be surprisingly perceptive at times. Then again, you must surely be in need of comfort as much as I am – though I won't say you need it /more/ than me; after all, while you may have spent the past three years safe in the knowledge that I was alive, I was left in the dark as to your own survival._

_You've said before that alone is what you have because alone protects you. I remember countering that it's friends who protect people. Are we friends, Sherlock? I've always considered you to be my best friend, the only one that's ever mattered. And while you said the same during the Baskerville case, I've since realized that that might have only been a ploy to get me to accept the cup of coffee you made for me with what you believed to be the drugged sugar._

_There are many questions yet to be answered. But we have time now, a second chance to get things right. And I'm going to start by letting you read all the letters that I've written to you every day over the past three years. Then maybe you'll better understand my feelings for you and what your actions put me through. Don't leave me again, Sherlock, please. I can't guarantee that I would survive a second abandonment._

_To the one who holds my heart, now and forever – I love you, Sherlock._

_Your John_


	18. Epilogue

My thanks to HarmonyLover, from whom I shamelessly borrowed portions of Sherlock's dialogue. I love our conversations, and I hope they continue for many years to come!

* * *

**Epilogue**

"Are you real?" were the first words to leave Sherlock's mouth the next morning. John instinctively reaches out a hand to stroke his long-absent friend's cheek, hoping to somehow soothe him with his touch.

"Yes, Sherlock," he replies, voice breaking at saying _his_ name aloud directly to his face for the first time in three years. "I'm here."

Sherlock reciprocates the gesture, reaching out a spindly hand to trace John's gaunt face with his own slender fingers. They spend many minutes this way, silently contemplating the other as they accustom themselves to old feelings and new sensations. Eventually, though, they realize that tears are streaming down both of their cheeks, and they move closer together until they are nothing but a tangle of limbs. John clutches Sherlock to him, tightly, so much so that his grip must be suffocating; however, Sherlock offers no protest, merely returns the embrace with equal passion.

"You have questions," he says at last. His tone, which is cool and detached, frightens John. What has happened to the enigmatic man that was the Sherlock Holmes of before? What could have broken him so completely? John isn't sure that he wants to know.

"Three years, Sherlock," he whispers forcefully, "Three _fucking_ years." He notices how Sherlock flinches at the expletive, yet doesn't move away, almost as if he welcomes John's wrath. "What happened?" he asks, calming slightly in the face of Sherlock's fear.

"Moriarty," says Sherlock, spitting the name out as though it's poison. And then he proceeds to explain to John: where he's been, what he's been doing... _everything_. Although John is horrified by some of what Sherlock has to say, not to mention the conditions he has had to live in – John vows then and there to start forcing Sherlock to eat more regularly; the fact that he's never succeeded before does little to daunt his resolve – he hides his distress well, knowing that Sherlock is self-conscious enough about some of the acts he has had to commit and which he is now confessing to John himself. "Colonel Sebastien Moran was the last of Moriarty's 'associates'. I got him yesterday, and then I came straight to you. I just couldn't stay away anymore."

Throughout his recitation, Sherlock has been playing with a frayed edge of the duvet and tracing circles on John's shoulder through his clothes. So far, he has refused to meet John's eyes. Now, though, he looks hesitantly towards his friend, as though to gauge his reaction to all that he has said.

"I did it for you, John, all of it," he whispers at last, when John continues to remain steadfastly silent. "Moriarty would have burned the heart out of me, otherwise."

"I thought you said you didn't have a heart," John swiftly counters.

"I didn't, not for the longest time," Sherlock admits candidly. "And then I met you, an ex-army doctor with an average amount of intelligence, and you somehow managed to work your way into the heart I never knew I had, inspiring me to be a better person. You, John – _you_ are my heart." His little speech finished, Sherlock resumes playing with the blanket and refusing to look John in the eye, afraid of what he might see looking back at him.

Tenderly, almost reverently, John touches Sherlock's cheek and tilts his face towards him. "Hey," he whispers. "I won't say it's alright that you jumped off the roof of Bart's to save my life, but I appreciate the gesture. Never do it again, though. If we go, we go together. Partners, remember?"

Leaning into John's touch, Sherlock allows his eyes to flutter shut as he feels himself relaxing for the first time in the past three years. "Not a day went by that I didn't think of you," he whispers. "You were constantly on my mind. I was always thinking of ways to end the task I had set myself, because the sooner I finished the sooner I could come home to my heart – you."

"That's cheesy, but sweet," says John, chuckling as he bends his head to kiss the top of Sherlock's curls. "Thank you."

Sherlock burrows further into John's embrace, almost as if he were trying to climb inside of him. "That day, on the roof," he begins, speaking haltingly. "Moriarty said that my friends would die if I didn't jump. My first thought was of you; I'm ashamed to say that I honestly didn't even think of the others until Moriarty prompted me, saying that there were three snipers, three bullets, trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. You mean everything to me, John, _everything_, and Moriarty used that knowledge to his advantage by exploiting my one weakness."

"I know you're of the opinion that feelings are messy and that love is a disadvantage, caused by nothing more than chemicals in the body," John whispers. "But it's not weakness to show that you care, Sherlock."

"I'm not a monster; I would have spared you seeing me jump if I could," Sherlock replies. "But I needed to convince the world that I was dead, and what better way than by having my best and only friend witness it and be convinced of it, too? Think, John – anyone who was watching would have seen us talking, would have seen you run over, would have seen my body taken away, and most importantly, would have seen your grief over my death. I couldn't have told you that I was alive, John, and that it was all a trick; you had to be believed, to save not only yourself, but Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too. It was the ultimate insurance policy."

The instant the words leave Sherlock's mouth, he wishes he could retract them. He's only just come back, after all; John's bound to be a little sensitive with regards to his 'death,' and downplaying his significance to little more than insurance, even to save the lives of the three people closest to Sherlock, would most definitely be classified as a 'bit not good.'

"It's fine, Sherlock," says John, as if he can read the other man's mind. "It's all fine."

Sherlock remains tense within the confines of John's arms, still waiting for John to turn on him, only to start with an almost violent shudder when John unexpectedly begins to card his fingers through Sherlock's curls. He relaxes instantly at the touch, though, practically purring as he slides down the length of John's body so that the older man is in a position of power over him, for once the taller of the two. His head now resting on top of John's heart, Sherlock gives a contented sigh, his world finally righted with the realization that John is alive and well. Even if the other man eventually comes to his sense and kicks Sherlock out of the flat – though only after punching him, Sherlock would insist – Sherlock would be the happiest of men because John was _alive_.

"Just so you know, I'm never letting you out of my sight again," John whispers, his breath puffing gently against Sherlock's sensitive earlobe. Turning his head to the side, John presses his face against Sherlock's cheek until his nose must be close to breaking from being twisted at such an awkward angle.

"I wasn't planning to leave unless you ordered me away," Sherlock confesses, finding it easier to talk to John when he's not looking directly at him.

It's at this point that Sherlock suddenly feels a tear trickle down his cheek, followed by another and another... it's John, quietly sobbing out what must surely be his frustration at Sherlock's actions.

"If it would make you feel any better, you can punch me," Sherlock offers with a nervous chuckle. "I wouldn't object." He closes his eyes and waits for John's fist to descend.

"Sherlock," he hears, instead. "Look at me."

Unable to disobey, Sherlock opens his eyes to find John mere millimeters from his face, and he knows then that John will never punish him for what he's done. "Why won't you hurt me?" he asks in a choked whisper. "I deserve it."

John waits until Sherlock's wandering eyes finally settle on his face before answering. "Because nothing I could do to you would ever compare to what you did to me," he replies softly, knowing that his words will hurt Sherlock in a way that his fists never could. "Physical wounds heal; emotional wounds last a lifetime."

"And you think I wasn't emotionally wounded by my actions?" Sherlock whispers, once more on the cusp of a breakdown.

"I've no doubt that you were," John replies, quite calmly, in Sherlock's opinion. "I heard your voice on the phone, after all. You were close to tears, and not just over the fact that you were about to jump to your death. But it's not the same. You knew I was alive, while I knew nothing. I was kept in the dark, left to bury my best friend and spend the next three years grieving what turns out to have been a _lie_."

Sherlock flinches away from the venom in John's voice, and John is instantly repentant for having unintentionally scared Sherlock, a man he thought felt no fear. He realizes that Sherlock is emotionally vulnerable: having returned to John seemingly from the dead, he clearly expects rejection, and at the very least, a good kick in the pants. It's obvious that they'll have to tread cautiously around each other as they attempt to rebuild their former relationship.

"I won't deny that I'm hurt," John says slowly as he contemplates how much to reveal. "I've had to re-live the sight of you falling, arms and legs flailing, every time I've closed my eyes over the past three years. There's resentment, and I'm sure I'll have some choice words for you to express the full extent of my displeasure – but later. What matters is that you're _here_; you're alive and safe in my arms; and I'm never letting you go again."

"I'm not going anywhere, John; I'm here to stay – for good," Sherlock assures him. "But only if you'll have me, of course."

"Don't be silly, love," John says without thinking. "Baker Street hasn't been home without you; I'm certainly not about to send you away."

The two men stare at each other in stunned silence as they both realize what John has just called Sherlock, and the implications of his previous statement.

"We've been lazing about in bed long enough, don't you think?" says John suddenly, throwing his legs over the side of the mattress and standing so fast that his head spins for a moment, so great is his hurry to distance himself from Sherlock. "I'll make us some food. What would you like? You must be starving; you're all skin and bones."

"John..." says Sherlock, catching the other man's wrist before he can make good on his escape to the kitchen.

"Let it go, Sherlock, please," John begs, not wanting his heart to be crushed again.

"No, we need to talk about this," Sherlock insists. "If what I've deduced since last night is correct – and you know that I'm very rarely wrong – then I'm surprised you aren't angrier."

"I am, believe me," John assures him. "But at the moment, I'm just too tired to show it. You can't imagine what it's been like..." His voice trails away, and John comes to a decision: food can wait. Right now, Sherlock needs to read the notebook of letters that John has devoted himself to writing ever since the consulting detective's fall. Maybe then he'll understand. Sherlock accepts John's offering without question, opening the first page only to glance sharply up at John, who is now studiously avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"John..." Sherlock whispers, his voice close to breaking.

"Just read them, Sherlock," John snaps, eager to get this over and done with so that they can hopefully move on with a minimal amount of damage to the tattered shreds that remain of the trust their friendship had originally been founded on.

Nodding once, Sherlock turns his attention to the many pages John has scribbled on over the years. And what he reads leaves him breathless from the pain. He notes the shaking of John's hands and the tears that stain various entries, the subsequent wetness blurring the ink of John's pen. His tears join John's on the pages as Sherlock cries in front of another person for the first time that he can recall. He had cried many times over the past three years, of course – the thought of John was enough for his eyes to well up – but never where anyone could have seen him. And he had cried as a child, shunned by his peers and looked down upon by his older brother. Tears were a weakness, then. Now, though, he let himself go, all the while wishing that he could cry tears of blood as penance for what he has unknowingly forced John to go through.

When he comes back to his senses, Sherlock realizes that the arms wrapped tightly around him are John's. He attempts to struggle, tries to get away, not believing himself worthy of John's comfort, not after what he's put him through. But John holds tight, refusing to let go.

"We'll be alright, Sherlock," he's whispering to him. "Everything's going to be fine, you'll see."

They rock back and forth together on the bed, each drawing on the other's strength. Sherlock realizes that tears are streaming down John's face in addition to his own, and this makes him cry all the harder. It's therefore many minutes before their breathing slows to only the occasional hiccough and their chests stop heaving from suppressed sobs. They eventually find that they've fallen back against the pillows, with Sherlock's head resting in the crook of John's neck.

"I never thought I'd say this," Sherlock whispers at last. "But thank god for Mycroft. If I'd come back to find you gone, I probably would have killed myself for real."

"Don't say that!" John whispers back, his voice fierce as his arms tighten subconsciously around Sherlock's upper body.

Sherlock exhales heavily. He knows that he's been depriving his body as of late, and that his senses have become muted as a result. But he's still as sharp as a tack when it comes to John, and he realizes that the good doctor was telling the truth in his goodbye letter and that his feelings for Sherlock have only grown since.

John loves him.

John _loves_ him.

John loves _him_.

But why? That's the question now plaguing Sherlock's mind. What's so special about him that would make John want to be with him romantically? Sally's hardly the first person to call him a freak, and there's a reason for that. His deductions have always astounded people, true enough, but they've never failed to turn on him the moment he delved too deep into their personal lives. But John... sweet, pure, _good_ John looks at him with stars in his eyes. Even when Sherlock is surely bugging the hell out of him, John still manages to look at him with admiration. And this is why Sherlock left him behind. He didn't want to disillusion John; he didn't want the light to fade from those expressive eyes. While he knows that John was an army medic and has seen his fair share of suffering, he didn't want John to look at him any differently. When asked, he'd given John the edited version of his story. If John ever knew the full extent of what he'd had to do to keep the ones he loved safe... well, he'd surely be left alone again. And that's why he'd never let anyone in before, because they inevitably left. John, however, broke down all his walls.

Now, the question remained: was he capable of love? He was clearly what John _wanted_, but could he give John what he _needed_? He'd never been in a 'proper' relationship before. Sure, he'd fooled around in university. Experimenting in 'love' had been necessary for the Work; he needed to understand what motivated people to commit crimes of passion, after all. But he'd never gone on dates or cuddled or done any of those couple-y type things. He'd always shied away from such activities, deeming them 'sentimental' and not worth his time. Could he put all that aside for John? The answer is unequivocally 'yes.' He loves John, has loved John all along. For John, he would cross oceans and move mountains. Having already risked so much for John, could he afford to risk his heart as well?

Sherlock turns his head to regard John. Yes, he decides. He would gladly risk his heart – and more – for John's love.

He's been silent too long. Though John's arms remain around him, Sherlock can feel the tension radiating from every pore, thrumming through his veins. How to fix this? The last thing Sherlock wants is to make John feel that he's been rejected. Shifting within the confines of John's embrace, Sherlock balances his body over John. Looking deep into his eyes, Sherlock sees a myriad of emotions constantly in flux – pain, hope, love, desire, to name a few – and he prays to a God he doesn't quite believe in that he isn't overstepping any bounds when he tentatively brushes their lips together for a sweet and chaste kiss. John doesn't seem to mind, though, melting under his less-than-experienced touch and falling back against the pillows as he allows Sherlock to plunder his mouth.

The tables are soon turned, though, as John kisses Sherlock back with all the wonder and rage that has consumed him since their first meeting, and which has only intensified since Sherlock's fall and subsequent return. Sherlock accepts all that John gives without complaint or protest, moaning when nips verge on bites and sighing when John's teeth scrape over his lips until they are left swollen and throbbing. His hands tighten on John's hips, which prompts John to flip them so that their positions are reversed and he is now the one looming over Sherlock. This time, when he bends his head and their lips meet, the kiss is soft and gentle as John worships Sherlock's mouth, swallowing his moans and delighted gasps at the new sensations that must surely be overwhelming his body. As warm skin shivers under his hands and heat radiates from beneath his palms, John takes comfort in the breath mingling with his own and this irrefutable proof that Sherlock is alive.

Pulling back slightly, John raises a single hand to brush an errant curl from out of Sherlock's face. "Never leave me again," he whispers.

"I promise, John," Sherlock whispers back, and raises his head so that their lips are touching once more.

Both allow for some of the grief that they have suffered to seep into this kiss, and both open their mouths wide to accept this offering for what it is. Though both have been badly damaged, they are wise enough to see that they can only heal with the help of their partner, now their lover. When the kiss ends, John presses his forehead to Sherlock's, desperately wishing that there were some way for him and Sherlock to reside within the same body so that they would never again have to be parted. He's afraid to let Sherlock out of his sight for fear that this is only a dream. And if it is, then he dreads waking: that moment of oblivion when he first opens his eyes before reality sets back in and he remembers that Sherlock is dead... he's dead and he's never coming back...

Hands are cupping his face, a soothing voice is whispering to him. What's he saying? It's as if he's underwater; everything's muted: sights, color, sound...

_Breathe, John, just breathe. In, out; in, out. Follow my lead. You can do it, come on._

With a shuddering breath, John comes back to himself and he realizes that he'd been having a panic attack. He collapses on top of Sherlock before quickly rolling to the side so that he doesn't crush the slight form beneath him. Sherlock follows his every move and winds an arm around his waist, pinning John to his chest. They lie like that in utter silence, John shaking uncontrollably within the prison of Sherlock's arms. Sherlock, meanwhile, has his head pressed to the base of John's neck, where he plants a soft, wet kiss.

"Want to talk about it?" he whispers softly.

"Not particularly," John replies, "But as I've no doubt that you'll deduce what's wrong in a single glance, I might as well tell you."

His silence contradicts his words, though, but Sherlock is patient and settles down to wait, his hands ghosting along John's sides in an effort to calm him.

"You've read my letters," John begins, haltingly. "Some feelings just can't be put into words, though. It was... so hard... getting up each day and facing a world without you by my side. And it never got any easier. The pain was... always there. I wanted to die, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what that's like?" He forges on ahead, not giving Sherlock a chance to respond, if he had even been expecting an answer. "I couldn't be bothered to eat or go out and see people. I would cry myself to sleep at night, only to wake up in a cold sweat from having seen you fall in my dreams. I... existed. There's just no other word for it. What I was doing could hardly be called living; I was empty, numb inside, and barely functioning. There wasn't any light. _You_, Sherlock – you were my light. Your smile would do more to brighten my day than anything else. You made my life exciting again; in the aftermath of my injury, you were the one that gave me a reason to get up in the morning. Before you, I was... so alone, and I owe you so much..."

He breaks down into sobs again, and Sherlock holds him close, offering comfort the only way he can: through touch, which will hopefully convince John that he's really there and that he's not going anywhere. He decides that now isn't the time to mention that he was at the cemetery when John spoke these same words to his grave. Somehow, he doesn't imagine that going over too well. Sherlock shifts their bodies so that both men are sitting upright. He then turns John around so that they are facing each other, before slowly unbuttoning John's shirt and divesting him of the garment. He's read John's journal, of course, and knows that he had turned to cutting for a time. But nothing can prepare Sherlock for the sight of countless pale scars littering the entire length of John's arms. Wordlessly, he raises the appendage to his lips and begins to kiss each individual mark, as if he can heal John of his pain in this manner. He repeats the process on the other arm, and only then meets John's gaze. Each man's eyes are suspiciously bright.

"I love you, John Watson, scars and all," Sherlock whispers, his first time saying those three little words that can mean so much. "And I realize that I could go on and on all I want to about how we'll never be apart again. But this is one of those cases where actions speak louder than words. So, here's what I propose: we take this – our relationship – one day at a time, starting right now. I won't accept any cases; we'll go out, date, and take the time to properly learn about each other. What do you say?"

John stares at him, considering his offer. "I've been broken for so long that I'm not sure if even you can fix me," he warns.

"I'm well-aware of the risk," Sherlock replies. "I know I've hurt you, deeply. I'll probably do so again. You know how I am, after all – cold and analytical. Are you still willing to attempt a relationship with me?"

"Oh god, yes," says John, his words so reminiscent of their first case together that neither man can help but to smile. And just like that, they're both suddenly doubled over laughing, just like that first night when they had returned to Baker Street after chasing the cabbie and were leaning against the wall, laughing breathlessly... the first time that Sherlock saved John by proving to him that he didn't need to lean on a cane; he could depend on his own two legs to carry him.

"Come on, _I'll_ make us some food," Sherlock offers, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing up in one seamless motion. He holds his hand out for John to take, which he does.

"What? And have you almost burn the flat down again?" says John with a laugh. "I don't think so."

"Then what would you suggest, _Doctor_?" asks Sherlock in that silky-smooth voice of his, hands on John's hips drawing the other man so close that their chests are pressed up against each other.

"I'll cook; you watch," John says, nodding once as if that settles things.

"I can live with that," Sherlock concedes.

As John picks up his discarded shirt, Sherlock halts his movements, lowering his head to press a kiss to John's injured shoulder. Tears inexplicably form in the doctor's eyes at such an intimate gesture, and he cups Sherlock's cheek in one hand, drawing the consulting detective's face down to his until their lips are touching. He draws away and puts his shirt back on, before taking Sherlock's hand in his once more and leading the way to the kitchen. Things aren't perfect yet, but they have the hope of someday.


End file.
